


Salon

by jenna_thorn



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Movie, Strike Team Delta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:15:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna_thorn/pseuds/jenna_thorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...walking out of a burning building with her hair on fire may have cemented her place in the SHIELD new employee training slide show but played merry havoc with her curls...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [such_heights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/such_heights/gifts).



> set between the events of Iron Man 2 and The Avengers

She honestly thought Johannes was going to burst into tears when she walked in just after the turn of the year. She'd made it through the Stark Expo that summer nearly untouched, multiple Iron Men flinging laser blasts and all, but a simple hostage rescue turned into a clusterfuck of impressive idiocy and walking out of a burning building with her hair on fire may have cemented her place in the SHIELD new employee training slide show but played merry havoc with her curls.

Coulson even blinked. That was always fun to watch, and when he tugged at the stiff dead ends of one hank and it came away in his hand, he sighed audibly. She patted his hand and said, "It's not like it doesn't grow back."

He nodded and asked about skin damage, so she let him peer at the back of her left arm and glanced over his shoulder at Clint who slowed to a walk as he approached.

He scrunched his face and she rolled her eyes. He finished playing with the shaft in his hands, sliding it into the quiver still on his back, and said, "Whatever transport you're in, I'm not. I hate the smell of burned hair."

"Like I was going to let you sit next to me anyway." But when he held his palm up, she handed over a blade, one of the ceramic stilettos that kept an edge. All of her scalp was lightly toasted at this point and the less pulling, the better. Coulson stepped behind her to help, holding each hank of hair close to her skull as Clint sliced off the worst of the damage, the blackened brittle ends and the one large blob where a chuck of plastic sheeting had brushed too close. She had twisted away, knowing far too well how melted plastic clung, but spatter was spatter.

Clint handed back the knife as he and Coulson brushed her down, and she stepped away from their mother henning, swinging her head to shake off what was loose. She tugged a bit around to see it. "Going to be jaw length at best," she said, but the edge was cleanly cut and he'd salvaged more than she was expecting.

"I'll alert Paris, London, and New York for the new fashion trend," Coulson said, deadpan as always and she shot him a smile.


End file.
